


Lodge

by deleerium



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Forced Orgasm, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Prostate Milking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-14
Updated: 2006-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deleerium/pseuds/deleerium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orlando visits Viggo at his place in the mountains after the LOTR premiere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lodge

It was more of a lodge than a house, really. Set so far back from the road that getting the mail was a drive. And during the winter, with the drifts too high to wade through and the one lane road not on the county plow routes, Viggo had to put chains on the truck and drive to the post office in town. 

A wide porch wrapped the front and sides, wooden railing low enough to open the view over wide meadows and the woods that spread out across the valley. The inside was spacious, but warm – thick rugs on the plank floor, low cushioned furniture that swallowed a man. Like the couch that was long enough for an afternoon nap. There were two bedrooms, but only one for sleeping, the other cluttered with the sour smell of turpentine, unopened letters and a stack of boxes that had never been unpacked. 

Viggo liked saving the letters. Seals unbroken. Often pausing to pick one up, alone, thumb tracing the embossed return address of a foreign hotel. Following the artless lines of loopy scrawl that shouted his name across the front. The smeared ink wash of an unfamiliar canceling stamp. The caricatures that sometimes appeared on the back. 

The first day went fast. Picking Orlando up from the airstrip, his endless chatter about schedules and media and agents and the unbelievable – truly unbelievable requests of all those actors. 

Orlando stacked his bags neatly inside the door, only the top button of his shirt unfastened, coat hung on the rack, patted into place. Straightened one last time. 

His hands always twitched for the first few hours. His long legs were restless as he paced the large kitchen, while Viggo made them lunch. His smile was an unconscious imitation of Viggo's mad hatter grin, his laugh edgy and high. He ate like a teenager – devouring everything put in front of him. Taking Viggo's offered plate of unfinished steak, new potatoes and squash without question. Nodding an immediate yes to seconds. 

“More food wouldn't kill you.” 

“I can't eat. Out there.” Followed by a cackle and a deprecating jibe about the actor's trademark: image obsession. 

Orlando chattered even as he pushed back from the table, back straight and shoulders stretched out, a cameras-still-on angle in his long neck. He unconsciously assumed long, flattering poses in the center of the couch – as if languishing in some well-lit, A-list bar. By the time the fire died down he was leaning into the corner, designer slacks wrinkled with his legs drawn up. But still wound on, rattling off another story even as he polished off the second half of a roast beef sandwich. 

He fell asleep while Viggo went out to put the car in the barn. Viggo tucked a throw pillow under the flushed cheek and smothered Orlando in quilts – folded since this morning over one arm of the couch. The dark circles sank while Orlando slept, purple coffins for black lashes, hands curled tight against his chest – holding something deep. 

He was up before Viggo, empty cereal bowl rinsed but still in the sink, coffee too strong but hot, the second cup in his hand. Orlando's hands didn't wander quite as much. He paced Viggo's movement around the kitchen with his gaze instead of his feet. Only every other second was filled with words. Dress slacks still, but the dress shirt had been exchanged for a faded gray sweater – expensive a few years back. Well worn. And bare feet. 

Viggo brought him a pair of navy wool socks and went out to check on the dogs. 

He came back as Orlando mastered the last of a dozen slides across the smooth floor, shaking his head when Orlando cracked his palms against the open door. Orlando laughed. 

Viggo shut the door and shrugged out of his jacket. “Looks like snow.” 

“I missed that couch of yours.” 

Viggo headed for the second bedroom to look at his letters. 

+

“Why don't you ever open them?” Orlando's voice quiet from the doorway, half in and half out. 

“I know what's inside them.” 

+

The second morning, Orlando unfolded himself from the couch at the smell of coffee. He moved silently across the room. Leaned shirtless against the table, cradling his mug, shoulders slung in at their natural tilt. Body all gangles, big hands and narrow feet. The dark circles had been replaced with the smooth squint of enough sleep. He smiled at Viggo – without a word - and took another sip. 

Viggo set down his cup. 

\+ 

The kitchen table was cold under Orlando's cheeks, his cotton trousers twisted around one ankle. Viggo pulled the knot of long hair loose from the base of Orlando's skull – impatiently – and tangled his fist in the strands. 

He wrenched Orlando's head back and folded one long leg up over a shoulder, pushing his cock into the sleep-warmed heat of him, slick from a few impatient digs of Viggo's thick fingers. He pulled on the dark tangle until Orlando's shoulders hit the table. Lifted Orlando's thigh high around his waist and thrust with rough impatience. He fucked Orlando and the table across two yards of stone floor before he came, braced and panting above Orlando's folded leg and chest. He kissed the inside of Orlando's knee. 

Orlando slid a hand down between their chests and Viggo shackled Orlando's wrist. Pushed the hand away. 

“Not yet.” 

He pulled out and licked the sweat from the crease of Orlando's thigh. He pinned Orlando's hands to the table and leaned over, pressing his legs wide apart and licked at the tip of his cock. Licked until Orlando's tasted heavier, and the slit widened a fraction. Viggo pulled Orlando up from the table and set him on his feet. He held Orlando loosely around the waist when he pressed close, cock digging into the top of Viggo's thigh. Viggo pressed a finger to Orlando's lips – quiet and red. “After breakfast.” 

+

One navy sock folded easily into Orlando's mouth, the other long enough to hold it in, tied tight around the back of his head. 

Viggo pushed Orlando to his knees on the plush rug in front of the fire. Pressed on the back of Orlando's head until his cheek touched the floor and wrapped his hands tight in a scarf – Orlando's fingers clutching the ends tight together at the base of his scar. 

He knelt behind Orlando, and moved his legs further apart. Wider. Until he was splayed like a frog, cheeks spread open. Viggo covered his palm and fingers in wet and worked two fingers in. He stopped, got a pillow for Orlando's neck and shoulder, and started again. His gaze was fixed on Orlando's cock and balls, hanging between his thighs. 

He worked another finger in, this one slower, more deliberate, pressing harder when Orlando's body jerked. Just there. 

He finger-fucked him slowly, the pads of his fingers sliding over and over the different textures. He listened to the sounds creeping around the sock and the hiss of Orlando's breathing. 

Viggo finger fucked him until Orlando thumped his head on the floor and his cock twitched. And twitched again. After another handful of milking strokes, Orlando's cock disgorged a thin line of come. Orlando whined. Every stroke made more come out, until a tiny pool formed on the carpet, his cock still twitching, but there was nothing left. 

Half an orgasm. No more pressure, but all of the need remained. 

Viggo licked around his fingers, around the edges and into the slick hole until Orlando fell to one side, his knees curled up against his chest. His cheeks and chin covered in a film of sweat. 

Viggo untied Orlando's hands, cut off the sock and carefully pulled the other one out. He dragged them both up on the sofa, Orlando into his lap. He held a cup of water. Orlando drank three, leaning tight against Viggo's chest. 

After a while, Orlando spread his legs, dropping them on either side of Viggo's thighs. 

Viggo filled his palm with too much lube and stroked him. He cupped and lifted the hard weight of Orlando's sac, balls still tight. Coated them until his hand slid easily over the skin. Sometimes his grip tightened, slowed down to a torturous crawl. Sometime cruel and fast, the rapid wrist flick and thumb scrubbing at the head that Orlando liked as he got closer to coming. Sometimes just the slit – getting it slick over and over again. Worrying at it. Fingertips circling the head. 

\+ 

Viggo pulled the quilt over them both when Orlando's breathing finally evened out against his shoulder, his cock still hard against Viggo's hip. He kissed the top of Orlando's head. Rubbed his nose into the tangle of hair. His fingers traced the wings of Orlando's shoulder blades, the embossed logo of his scar, the ink stamped length of dark lashes. The lips that had snarled his name. 

+

Viggo watched Orlando wake up just as he pushed Orlando's hips back, and down, onto his cock. Orlando's hands tightened on Viggo's shoulders and he moaned. Viggo pushed him up until Orlando was kneeling over him. 

Orlando rode him with long, drawn out rolls of his hips. He kissed Viggo's nose. Licked an eyebrow. His chin. 

Viggo wrapped his fist around Orlando's cock. He pulled in firm, even strokes as Orlando curled down against him, hips working faster and faster, rocking on Viggo's cock. Viggo matched the movements he could keep up with and rode out the rest. 

“You should come.” 

Orlando bit Viggo's tongue when he came, spattering them both, one thick spurt pooling in the hollow of Viggo's throat. Orlando's lips moved into words but Viggo held his head tight, mouth slanted against mouth, swallowing whatever Orlando was going to say. 

END


End file.
